A Thousand Apologies
by The Baker Street Irregular
Summary: Sherlock Returns after three years to find John a near stranger to him, sporting an ungodly mustache that is far more hideous than his entire collection of jumpers. It's not the fashion choice that annoys Sherlock so much as the meaning that accompanies it. BBC Sherlock with References to ACD cannon. Inspired by the fandoms reaction to the Johnstache.
1. My Dear Watson

"John, I owe you a thousand apologies…I had no idea you would be so…_affected_."

Sherlock's nose crinkles in a disapproving taste towards the small tuft of hair running the length above his flatmates mouth. He rolls his eyes and turns the other way so that when he bares his fangs in frustration, John dosent make the mistake of the emotion being aimed towards himself.

It's pointed in the direction of that _ungodly_ mustache, which Sherlock finds himself in secret despise of. He reads far too much into the simple change of appearance, the primary data being that John Watson has _changed_ during his three year absence. The secondary, being that mustache signifies, to John at least, a certain degree of _sentimental closure _towards his past.

"Honestly, John, the jumpers alone were horrid."

John self consciously scrubs his fingers across his mustache, leaning forward. His cane ominously rests against both the neglected flaking forest-green paint of the wooden bench and the aging man's right leg. John glances around regent's park, unable to make eye contact with the detective. He subtly clenches his hands together beneath his chin to stabilize the returning intermittent tremors, in an attempt to hide this information from Sherlock.

"I'm no longer caught up in youthful adventures, Sherlock. It felt like the right thing to do… you know… stop trying to cling to days past."

John chooses his words so _very_ carefully, so as not to open old wounds. Sherlock is unsure of wether those wounds are his own or the doctor's. He Huffs with a fold of his arms. Sulking, he sinks into the bench and follows John's absent gaze. He is watching two children play together on a tuft of grass. Sherlock ignores the deductions of their life filtering across his eyes. 'Youth' had somehow become synonymous for John's time with Sherlock. John was subtly telling his friend that he had outgrown Sherlock Holmes. As if he were an article of clothing in which John, reposing through his dull monotonous routine of an inactive lifestyle had become too fat to _fit_ the detective into his life any longer.

"God help us, you are not to the point of dieting alongside Mycroft are you?

"We can't all be running about the streets of London."

_Confirmation_. Sherlock bolts upright in the bench glaring at this stranger-to-him. Upset, he loses control of his willpower to remain above "bit not good." With a glare towards everything that is far too average about the doctor, He reads John. An elementary school book which Sherlock finds himself ripping pages upon pages of the well guarded secrets protected beneath dull, boring covers. Sherlock claws at the wounds, which weren't particularly healing anyways. _and_ _Here I thought you fancied yourself a doctor, John. _They were infectiously festering his flatmate's existence. Ink spreading across the clarity of type. Sherlock would give them the attention they needed. He would painfully pour salt into them so that they would finally begin to heal.

"You get a wife out of it, Mycroft gets the credit..and for me?" Sherlock snarls towards the spectrum of emotion flicking across John's features.

"Well, there still remains the cocaine-bottle." 

By the time Sherlock finishes, he can't remember what he had stated. After all he was merely relating the visual language around him into words. A Translator reading from an open book.

But the sting of his face as Watson abruptly stands from the bench, cane forgotten, shaking fingers clenched into military ammunition, gives Sherlock a self-satisfied grin. Youthful desire at least, remained within the aging man. A punch to the face was a small price to pay.

"Piss Off!"

Before John can stop himself He shouts the one thing he promised not to. _Not towards Sherlock Holmes. Not like everyone else_. Sherlock's smug grin breaks into a sad and distant frown. His eyes fog over betraying the emotion of hearing those two words from _his blogger_. After a moment, Sherlock stands, taking the doctor's advice in full pivoting on his heel to walk away.

_It was only a matter of time. _John was no different than the rest.

In that moment, John Watson really dosen't feel like himself.

He dosent feel like John. Sherlock drives the point home, adressing him by his surname with a flip of his collar.

"Watson."

And with that, he's gone.


	2. The 7-Percent of Sunshine that Remains

**Hey Readers, **

**As always thanks for reading! A few TW's in this chapter. Detailed description of Sherlock's Drug use through his P.O.V, and suicide ideation. Description of John's grieving stages and depression. And astronomy metaphors that Sherlock really shouldn't be making. Enjoy! **

* * *

Sherlock blankly charged through the London streets for the following hour, his mental map serving as an autopilot of sorts. Those on the sidewalks sensed his threatening presence and removed themselves from his path. He was fuming a spectrum of emotions. He glared at the CCTV cameras that followed his wake.

Mycroft had warned Sherlock to let the doctor go. Although his brother could appreciate the brilliantly orchestrated performance of a fake suicide, for the remaining masses, Sherlock discovered that death was not something to be preformed. Mourning was a process that could not be undone, and they had each mourned their loss.

Eventually, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and the others adjusted in their own unique ways, and life resumed. That was, save for John, who was still in the act of secretive mourning, and as a result, outright refused to return to Sherlock's side.

John. A name that was positively the most boring name in all of creation, had somehow become the sun in Sherlock's being, offering warmth, illumination, and grounding to madman's chaotic existence. A single fixed point in the entire universe, and before he had become aware of it, Sherlock's world had been pulled into gravitational orbit, and his entire existence revolved around that brilliance.

But the inevitable fate of the star is that the brighter it burns, the faster it extinguishes itself.

They collapse inward, some even become black holes - which was exactly what John's absence felt like to the detective now: a gaping abyss that was consuming Sherlock from within.

_Burn the heart out of me, indeed_

After nearly a full month since Sherlock's return, John had finally agreed to a meeting at Regent's Park. Sherlock understood that It was purely for the doctor's own necessary closure, but John would never openly admit to that that as his intention. Finality.

Sherlock had missed the warmth of John's presence during his three year absence, but he had memories safely archived within his mind to keep his John warm and alive as he fell into death's cold embrace. However, upon his return to life, the doctors warmth, which had earlier washed over him, melting ice and regenerating him like the spring that follows a long unforgiving winter, was instead replaced with a searing anger which burnt white hot. Sherlock didn't even need to touch.

Sherlock had intended to deliver a sincere heartfelt apology to John, to give closure with a positive outlook for himself, but He couldn't bear to open his heart to the presence who appeared before him. It wasn't his John, and he had unintentionally bared his emotions as both armor and weapon towards this stranger-to-him. And then there was the reference of Cocaine. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure the emotionally manipulative slip was accidental. There was vicious motivation behind it. Sherlock had bitterly tried shooting the sunshine into his veins. It was far from the same, and was extremely temporary. Always left him a little bit longer in that cold embrace, with a greater need for more in an attempt to reach some sort of equilibrium within the darkness of his existence. Sherlock's only disappointment with the drug use was only that it could not become a full substitute for the doctor. He wished it were that easy, but he really ought to have known better.

A simple mix of chemicals couldn't recreate the force of the sun.

Sherlock rounded a corner, questioning the value of a salvaged relationship with this new Watson. Would that warmth ever be the same? If no, then was it any better than the cocaine? The cocaine was certainly an easier effort, and Mycroft had on numerous occasions conflated John and Cocaine as Sherlock's obsessive addictions. Both had become indisputable, cursed anchors in his life. Drowning. Suffocating, in the reassuring stability they offered.

Was that what a salvaged relationship with John it meant? starting over completely, perhaps with a new person, with a new warmth entirely? John, was still John after all, was he really such a stranger to Sherlock? By far the most discomforting thing about the short visit was the odd familiarly, mixed with the slight terror found within vague unknown details of John that Sherlock had yet to deduce, and he had already seen so much already. Of this new "Watson."

Calling John by his surname had worked it's way into his mind as a way of differentiating between the two: The blogger-John that lived warmly within his memories of 221b, and 'Watson' who had got on with life after Sherlock's death. The very manifestation of British formalities, reminding him far too much of his elder brother. _Bravo John, you've successfully convinced everyone that you've readjusted into civilian life._

But Sherlock wasn't one to be fooled so easily, and John understood fully the more time they spent together, the more Sherlock would see - just as he always had. So the doctor was actively was trying to cut Sherlock's presence out of his life with purpose and determined reason. Not because of anger or some petty thought of vengeance, No, after a month those emotions dissipated. John Watson was left with the raw power of fear as his motivation.

Facing Sherlock's return, would also require that John, (the soldier who only knew one direction in which to march,) look back. If John did that, he would have no choice but to see his own reflection in the pieces of Sherlock's presence; broken liquor-bottled fragments of himself that shattered on the pavement with the person who meant the world to him. Wounds which had yet to be treated._ John, as a doctor, you really out to know better._

Sherlock bitterly remembered the first time he saw a glimpse of Watson, who confirmed these suspictions:

* * *

Sherlock had the audacity to sneak into the restaurant as a table cleaner. It wasn't a perfect or a well guarded disguise to say the least, but It also wouldn't have been the first time John had 'thought' he had seen the ghost of his detective, only for sherlock to slip out of sight and leave John feeling haunted. The best part about hidden-in-plain-sight disguises was that they carried near supernatural qualities. A bus boy wasn't terribly important so one really remembered him, and the extra presence (and help, in the form of manual labor) was favored over asking questions. So Sherlock's existence slipped through the restaurant unnoticed, after all, his mask beneath the mask was quite pointedly still a ghost.

Sherlock was planning to reveal himself within the week, and he preferred the element of surprise remain in his hand. So here he was, gauging the situation in advance, busing tables with enough strategically placed distance between himself and John.

The person sitting in his line of sight however, is not his John.

What sherlock instead sees is a man, in his late thirties, in a restaurant that that he acts familiar enough in, but body gestures reveal he feels as if he doesn't fully belong in the posh atmosphere. Implied that he recently acquired a large inheritance after the death of a close one, he prefers to eat out now. He's willing to pay extravagant prices because he has lost the motivation to cook for one, and eating in the company of others, he usually eats healthier - if at all. He is approximately 15lbs lighter.

Although he is surrounded by enough money to live the remainder of his life rather comfortably, he is unhappy. The soft easy-going smile is replaced with a cold, stoic, all-business expression. Eyes sunken in due to lack of sleep and rise in alcohol consumption, possibly nightmares. He drinks often now, even tonight before he has even ordered the first plate, his face is blushed with the unmistakeable mark of alcohol. The fact that he even remains this functional is quite alarming.

Severely depressed and ideating suicide, but still, a soldier to the end, who will fight until the very last stubborn breath, if only to keep up appearances. That's all he can do now to stay afloat, which is much easier when one has money (At least Sherlock hoped it would be, but perhaps he also inadvertently supplied John with a bottomless liquor bottle.) - He is wearing Spenser Hart, and a gentleman's mustache no less - a fashion upgrade that is as alarming as that hideous shade of pink the woman across from him wears. He is obviously on a date that he doesn't want to be on, in a restaurant with food that he dislikes because five-star cuisine is foreign in it's unfamiliarity, and he hates being thoroughly waited on - but he still frequents as a patron because he doesn't care about food anymore so long as it is food enough to sustain his transport. Transport that he wills to function with one more sip of alcohol - oil to numb the pain just enough to take one more step, to march onwards. The last remaining mechanism from which a soldier can draw on. Well, the last remaining mechanism other than drawing a gun, but that is easy, and easy is boring. Sherlock sees a man who, daily chooses to be brave. To live, and to march.

Bravery by far, was the kindest euphemism…

Does he try to be brave for Sherlock? To live on without him. To live on in place of him? Sherlock nearly scrubs the varnish from the tables as he continues to observe. That fashion sense is definitely not John's, perhaps the woman who he is with has influenced it, but Spencer Hart was Sherlock's favorite designer. Minimal, and without unnecessary flourish. _Clever John_ had worn Sherlock's entire fashion sense as a statement of mourning.

John was marching bravely forwards, desperately not allowing himself to look back even for a moment to see the pieces -limbs and appendages - trailing behind him. It was all precisely because he couldn't let Sherlock go. His body in the ultimate act of self-preservation slowly, piece by piece cut off his circulation so that John Watson could not feel at all. So that John Watson would not notice, as he fell away, piece by piece, until he was someone else entirely. A well oiled machine, functioning perpetually.

And in the middle aged man's alcohol drowned eyes, which seemed to fall into the recesses of his skull as if death were a welcoming embrace in his mind. In those sharp appearances and accessories carried by transport. Sherlock held his breath and stopped.

Sherlock's three year absence wasn't filled by this petite blond named Mary that he was dining with. No, It was filled with a much more vicious motivation.

From the position of a stranger, Sherlock saw the ghost of himself in the utterly haunted, empty shell of his barley functioning friend.

* * *

Sherlock returned from his thoughts, aware that he had subconsciously circled back to regents park. He bitterly chuckled at the sentiment only known to himself. Whether the doctor desired it or not. Sherlock uncomfortably remained in his solar system: banished to the outer rings, but still there, orbiting all the same.

Their roles had seemingly reversed, Sherlock Holmes had become a great man, a human one, while John Watson had sliced the very emotion from of his flesh, if only to prevent the spreading infectious nature of it.

Understanding this, Sherlock was severely unprepared to repair a relationship with John - to start a new relationship with Watson. He was not equipped with the understanding nor resources that the doctor had treated him with. No, he could not become for his friend, what the doctor had originally been for him. Sherlock's rationality accepted this as indisputable fact. If John needed a sun, Mary Mortsan was his, shining with the unconditional warmth of human affection.

Sherlock's gloved fingers jealously reached into his coat pocket and wrapped around the glass casing. The liquid of a bottled star. It wasn't as large as the sun by any means, In fact, Sherlock had calculated that it was approximately 7% of the warmth he so desired, and as with other stars, the light which emanated from it's presence, had most likely long since expired. What Sherlock was experiencing was the beautiful afterglow of it's memory.

Sherlock never liked the afterglow, It was like the powdered version of the drug. Breathing lines of stardust was as pointless as mapping out constellations in the night sky. The dust remained elegant, refusing to break the surface of his skin. It merely coated his existence in a glimmering high that faded with morning, and Sherlock wanted something that would consume him entirely. After some experimentation, he found that while a particular mix of chemicals could not recreate the force of the sun, a _liquid_ concoction of it was a bit stronger, and could supply at least 7% of it.

It wasn't much, and he oftentimes felt starved enough to consider feeding the warmth until he burnt beneath it's searing white hot presence. He smiled remembering the mental clarity found within the blissfuly whited vision of an orgasmic high, and just like that the simple idea took him. Like a moth drawn to the flame, he returned home to 221B with it dusted across his eyes.

He was revolving around a sun that wouldn't shine. Sherlock had accepted this as well, though he was unsure whether he was speaking of John or cocaine. Perhaps, he was speaking to both. Pursuing both. burning the candle at both ends. He supposed he himself, had once been a brilliantly shining star, but the inevitable laws of entropy burnt his heart into an insatiable void. Now, the black hole that he was, greedily consumed every particle of light that surrounded him, completely insatiable.

He apathetically tossed the metaphor from his mind and fell onto the sofa, coaxing the generic-brand of sunshine into his veins like medicine; side effects potentially worse than the temporary relief: One of two doctors agree.

The doctor of Sherlocks mind however, happens to be the one who prescribes it as Sherlock clutches the waves of his orgasmic high caught in a state of mental masturbation. 7% of his John returns and Sherlock shamelessly makes love to it, desperately clings to the warmth, while hot, human tears flow with the overwhelming emotional release of his presence. Euphoric bliss from which Sherlock greedily bathes. A release he knows, will inevitably leave him gently drowning in the raw, empty warmth of John's afterglow. If he wakes at all.

He can't remember how much he had used today, but he was sure that it was more than the usual. Nonetheless, he is extremely satisfied because it feels as if he had recreated that long forgotten sunshine, he can't be bothered to feel as though the following consequences, whatever they _weren't_ fully worth it.

Sherlock fails to register the actual source of that feeling however, as it slams into his apartment to pick up the drooling convulsing mess that is Sherlock from the floor and wrap tight arms around him in an embrace. He fails to register the difference between human affection, and the the warmth pouring from the sting of his slapped face. It's been layered over the glowing bruise of John's fist. The thought causes him to reply a stream of vulgar inconsistent noises, which are a mix of desperate wanting and ecstasy. Pain and pleasure are intricately woven now, and for Sherlock the source of that warmth is irrelevant as long as he can receive more.

Flash of something small and metal passes across his eyes, then John's voice filters through the dense air, Sherlock cannot make out words, but he smiles, enjoying the familiar sound. John pulls out his own bottle of sunshine, and Sherlock thinks that perhaps he will join him. Something is shoved rather forcefully down his throat, and Sherlock relishes the feeling of warmth that follows it the the rolling pain of his shaking body. He breathes the name of his John as if it were a final breath of oxygen for the drowning man, before he sinks beneath the surface completely.


	3. Corrupted Data: File Not Found

Sherlock stirs to wakefulness through a bout of fits. He fights as his body attempts to return to the world that is surrounded by the bright electric hum of overhead fluorescent lights; an ominous glow at the edges of his mind. His subconscious understands at some level there is nothing desirable to be found there, and so he fights to remain as he is: sleeping in peaceful darkness that blankets his senses. As his body stirs with life, however, waves of pain crash through him. His chest is tight and heavy. His lungs burn with each collection of oxygen. A painful thrumming annoyingly sets about in the back of his mind as he opens his eyes.

With a groan, Sherlock props himself up on elbows attempting to take in the surrounding environment: blurred shapes and colors. His vision has yet to fully return to him. He discontentedly sighs and falls back on the bedding. The world tilts and pivots in disorientation around him.

"Tempting fate, dear brother, is not a wise choice for a man who has once already returned from the grave."

Sherlock recognizes the voice as his brother's. A remembrance floods his mind, and a few of the pieces fall into place. He is in a hospital - Bart's. He's overdosed. The tone of Mycroft's voice suggests that undiscovered CCTV cameras are responsible for saving his life.

"Mycroft, how nice of you to have invaded my privacy. Watching me shoot up for long then?"

Sherlock supposes that Mycroft had already ordered Lestrade to sweep the flat. It would take some time to replace the quality of some of his more valuable recreational paraphernalia. Lestrade would be simultaneously impressed and disappointed; he would refuse Sherlock's consultations with cases for a few weeks; one week, if the right murder were to happen. Mycroft, Lestrade, and John would be keeping much closer tabs on Sherlock moving forward. He would have to return to the opium dens in the homeless networks for a few months.

"Where's John?"

Mycroft pauses before answering. "…He's stepped out for a moment to retrieve some coffee. He should be back shortly."

"Good, when he returns He can check me out and we can return to Baker Street. I -"

Sherlock stops himself. There is something _not on_ about that statement, but Sherlock can't grasp it. The following silence from Mycroft only heightens Sherlock's unease. Mycroft's next words are seemingly unrelated, but all too informative.

"Sherlock…I'm afraid your overdose has resulted in a stroke."

Ah. There it was. Neurons firing through his mind palace that had left gaping bullet holes in his memory. Strokes commonly resulted in temporary loss of memory, vision, balance, and motor skills. At least, thank God, Sherlock finds himself still able to coherently communicate.

"I've forgotten something because of the stroke, haven't I? What is it-?"

Sherlock recognizes the unmistakable, although blurry form of John enter the room with the smell coffee in hand. His gesture offers one to Mycroft who looks upon it with privileged disgust. John turns to Sherlock, offering it to him instead.

"I thought this was going to Mycroft, so you'll have to forgive the cream. I know you prefer black."

Sherlock remains still and silent, refusing the coffee as well. He does not want to reveal to John his loss of vision and possibly depth perception through an attempt to wrap his hand around the cup.

"You smell of alcohol and bar smoke. Caused you to worry that much have I?"

Sherlock means for the statement to be playful and joking, but the effects are far from. John and Mycroft exchange another pair of silent, brief glances. Sherlock frowns in annoyance. For the first time in his experience, he has found himself to be the only one in the room unaware. Sherlock rather hates not knowing. Mycroft clears his throat in preparation.

"Sherlock…Dr. Watson…"

Mycroft pauses long enough to impregnate whatever statement will follow with intense punctuated meaning. Before he can continue however, John intercedes.

" - _I've_ decided – with Mycroft, that _you're_ going to rehab."

Sherlock's frustration builds as he can all but feel the wealth of information exchanged between animated expressions that he cannot see. The entire absurdity of the whole situation would be so much easier to deduce were his vision working properly.

As it is now, blurred body gestures only supply pieces of information, and Sherlock is unable to tell if John intercepted the conversation because he wanted to be the bearer of bad news himself, or if he was covering the larger truth of what Mycroft was about to tell him. Mycroft doesn't sugarcoat things. John does.

"John, you are being, rediciouls, I don't need rehab."

Sherlock curses himself for slurring his words. He can practically imagine John attempting to hide his smile. John voice however, is cold. He has no smile to hide.

"Sherlock. It's _ridiculous _to not go. You need help."

"-That you can provide…" Sherlock sits up and folds his arms like a small child. "Besides, you know as well as I, that you're the only doctor I find somewhat bearable."

Sherlock frowns to himself. There was that feeling again. Something was wrong. John sets the unwanted coffee cup on Sherlock's bedside table with a loud sigh. There is something else. John's fingers tap on the bedside table. _John doesn't tap his fingers like that._ A deep-seated fear courses through Sherlock's veins. There is always something he can't see, but today is a grotesque understatement of not seeing, and Sherlock feels he is missing something monumental as it parades itself before him.

"Sherlock…"

"-I've upset you."

Sherlock takes John's silence as confirmation. Was John disappointed in him? Surely he knew of his drug habits by now. Sherlock always thought he rather looked and acted the type.

_Of course!_ His sister. The alcoholic. John has spent a near lifetime attempting intervention with Harry, and his relentless efforts have resulted in little to nothing in the way of progress. John is clever, and he knows better than to try to save someone from their addictions when they did not really want to be saved. And he knows Sherlock. He wouldn't – No, he knows better than to entrust himself to Sherlock's treatment.

"John, you are being an idiot. I'm not Harriet."

John's figure stiffens at the term of endearment. Sherlock leans back into the bed and inhales a deep painful breath before resigning himself.

"Fine. I'll go."

John quickly turns towards Sherlock, who directs his voice towards his elder brother.

"How long?"

Mycroft who has been quietly observing his brother swiftly replies.

"As long as it takes."

"Where"

"Far enough that drugs _and_ Dr. Watson will be inaccessible."

John remains silent while Mycroft slips his words. _Undoubtedly intentional._ Why should John being inaccessible be a matter of importance? The entire process of rehabilitation was built around the notion of isolation. Sherlock clenched his teeth trying to remember. Perhaps Sherlock had relapsed because of a fight between them, and John wanted Sherlock's attention to remain on his recovery. It seemed the probable, but Sherlock did not yet have all the facts. He smoothly continued his conversation with his brother.

"No therapists."

"Not unless you change your mind."

"May I bring some belongings from Baker Street?"

"The possessions that you would most like to bring have already been taken care of, they will be waiting for you at your arrival," Mycroft pauses before adding. "I daresay, while a violin makes a clever hiding place for drugs, the sound quality suffers immensely."

"So. It would seem that I never had a choice to begin with. _Fitting_."

"You've left me with little choice, Sherlock"

"Oh, do not feed me the ever-convenient words of Queen and Country, Mycroft!"

Sherlock is not in the mood to entertain his brother's self entitled authority. His mind is maddeningly halfway between deducing and fabricating information to fill in the blanks. It _was clever, but _he should have guessed even the humidifier would be found. Especially if Lestrade had brought the hounds, and if the detective inspector were operating under Mycroft's instructions, he most certainly had.

Mycroft continues to orchestrate the world around him, and Sherlock feels the world spin beneath him in a wave of nausea.

"Normally you would not be released at this time, but because time is imminent, I have assured the staff that you are in good hands and will be taken promptly to a recovery center before you begin to express your distaste for withdrawal. Since it seems you are now lucid, Sherlock, and you've no more questions, Dr. Watson will see you checked out at the front desk, and we will make our way to the car waiting at the front entrance. Do I need to have you restrained or would you rather retain a semblance of your dignity."

"I'm experiencing blurred vision and memory loss, Mycroft, I believe it is safe to assume I will not attempt to escape, as statistics nearly ensure that I will also suffer from imbalance and motor control when I stand."

Sherlock hears Mycroft pointedly tap his umbrella as he stands, "In that case, I will make my way to the car alone. Dr. Watson, if he would be so kind, will accompany you via wheelchair. I will be waiting for your arrival." Mycroft swiftly exits into the hallway, and is closely followed by John in search of a wheelchair.

Of course Mycroft wouldn't participate in any form of manual labor. Not when the commonplace existed at his disposal. John returns moments later mumbling words of surprise at Sherlock's patience. Sherlock, irritated by his flatmates inability to grasp the situation, loudly proclaims that his patience is rather obvious. No addict has ever been in a hurry to detox the drugs from their system.

Sherlock refuses the help of the nurses, and it is John instead, who helps Sherlock into the wheelchair. The contact feeds Sherlock too much new information. Too many questions. John has lost weight _-_ _Why is he limping again?_ He is wearing unfamiliar clothes, very nice choices, but definitely not John's. For a brief moment John's hand clutches Sherlock's to help support his path to the chair_. Intermittent tremors_. Sherlock feels the warm metal on John's left-hand index finger, and his heart sinks. Engagement ring. No scratches. _Recent engagement ring_. A cane is placed across the handles of the wheelchair. John doesn't ask Sherlock to hold onto it. _He's ashamed that he is using it. He doesn't want to draw attention to it._

Sherlock remains quiet as the questions and unease continues to build in his mind. John, dull as he is, is still able to sense Sherlock's anxiety and attempts small conversation as he pushes Sherlock through the hallways.

"I suppose Mycroft has already informed Mrs. Hudson. She's very forgiving. Won't stay mad long, bless her. She'll call you often, I'm sure."

Sherlock is tired of waiting to remember. He prods, "You'll call me… Wont you?"

John much too quickly turns his attention to the front desk. It only takes a moment, and a mention of Mycroft's name to check Sherlock out of the hospital. The uneven rolling gait as John silently limps the wheelchair forwards screams unwanted answers towards Sherlock. After the long awkward silence, John answers a question with a question.

"Sherlock, what's the last thing you can remember?"

"My experience of memory loss is irrelevant to your question."

John releases a growl of frustration towards Sherlock, prompting him to further explain his reasoning.

"I'm suffering accidental deletion in my memory, John, not amnesia. Imagine my mind were a hard drive, and contained on it were bits and pieces of corrupted files. 'file not found' 'error 404'. I know I've misplaced valuable data, John. But it's not completely forgotten. It is still there. I just need to re-link the files."

"Well, in any case, you've _accidentally_ deleted a lot of information."

"It wasn't intentional John, and I can assure you my hard drive is processing overtime to recover everything."

The two continue on in silence. It is not until Sherlock is nearing Mycroft's car that he speaks again.

"However, as it is now, I can more easily deduce what I've _forgotten_, rather than remember. Like for instance - I've forgotten that you're recently engaged..."

John is about to speak but Sherlock interrupts.

"Had you not been left-handed I might not have noticed. Point is, I can understand, to a vague extent, the events which led to my relapse and inevitable overdose. In my memory as it is now, I do not remember a return to drugs, but I can only assume it is a relapse as I can clearly remember that this is the second instance of my brother and Lestrade preventing me from killing myself. The other memory is so far in the past, that If I had chosen not to become clean following the first overdose, I would not be alive to experience this one. Conclusion is: relapse followed by overdose. Though memory also suggests that I've been a relapsed user for at least a month, now."

"Christ, Sherlock."

"John, Listen. While it is true that I don't fully remember what's transpired between us, I _can_ feel very much, that it was immensely _not good_."

"Sherlock. Stop right there. You don't need to say anything more."

"I need you to understand this, because time is short and where I am going, I will be unable to speak with you for an unknown time variable. From what I can deduce, the chance that we will speak on the phone is minimal at best, so hear me out."

"…Please."

The wheelchair stops moving. John listens.

"Regardless of the loss of memory, John. As I've stated before, the _feeling_ of it is still there, and it feels terrible and painful, John, and I'm sorry. I feel as if I owe you a thousand apologies, for whatever it is, that I've done"

Sherlock felt John pensively move his hands to his face.

"I can only assume of your engagement ring, that you no longer live with me in Baker Street. The ring is fairly new, and quite expensive. I've no idea how you acquired the money, but I can assume that you've proposed within the last six months…"

"You're deductions are spot-on as always, Sherlock. Go on then, what else?"

"You've grown distant, the lack of intimacy in our closeness…the lack of comfort in your touch. Ten minutes were more than enough to understand that however I drove you away from Baker Street, it was irreparable. And was quite some time ago. I don't believe I meant it to happen in this manner. I've never been quite as adequate in the area of human relationships, You understand John…" Sherlock pauses to make sure John is still listening, before continuing.

"I have no choice to but to accept the improbable reality that I can so clearly deduce before me, the truth. Even when feels as if you were just in Baker Street with me this morning."

"You were in the hospital this morning."

"Doesn't matter... Listen, If this is our parting of ways, then let me leave you with these words that were most likely never said: I didn't have friends, John, and now it seems I no longer have you. But Regardless of the cause, the effect remains that you've taught me a great deal on being human. For that, I thank you. I only wish I could have demonstrated this towards you a bit more in the end."

Sherlock reaches his hand over his shoulder to find John's. John quickly pulls away from Sherlock's touch.

"You – You are an insufferable git, you know that…" A mixture emotions begin to flood from John.

"John, I'm-"

"No Sherlock, You know what? I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that this is what's become of you, after I refused to return to Baker Street. It's also painful. To see you like this, and I'm sorry that I can't be the one to help you. I appreciate your words Sherlock, I _really_ do, and you have _no idea,_ how much I wanted to hear that from you, but you just can't go apologizing for things you don't fully remember."

"And rather than keeping me in ignorance, you could simply tell me what it was that I've d-"

The wheelchair whips itself into movement as John pushes it with a bit more force than necessary. The gentleness that coated John's words before, disappear in a fit of frustration and anger.

"Just do me a favor, Sherlock. If you are planning to kill yourself again for my sake, just don't, because I can't be bothered to grieve for you a second time, and I certainly don't plan to leave flowers on your grave ever again."

"You never…I havent... "

What was John saying? That Sherlock had died? Mycroft had a similar quip when he first awoke. The pounding in Sherlock's head worsens as he tries to force connections in his mind. The lights overhead flare in his vision and the overstimulation carries a new wave of nausea to Sherlock. He vomits to the side of the wheelchair. John stops pushing and frantically rounds the wheelchair to face Sherlock. Sherlock pushes John away and seizes the opportunity to lift himself to his feet. He needs to escape from what John has just told him. His feet cannot not hold his weight however, and gravity sends his body careening into the wall. Sherlock curses his lack of vision and grips the wall for guidance as he inches his escape.

John shouts Sherlock's name, and within minutes nurse hands surround him. One shouts orders of restraint. Sherlock fights off a large number as they attempt to hold him. The unmistakable feeling of John's hands wrap around him, and in a moment of military finesse, they quickly and effectively secure his arms behind him into handcuffs. The disoriented man is ushered through the front doors and into the back of Mycroft's car.

Mycroft sits in the backseat, and sighs rolling his eyes at the entourage accompanying his brother. Sherlock is unsure what expression he is wearing, but when his brother catches it, his annoyance turns to the staff.

"Regardless of his reasons for finding himself in your care, treating my brother as a criminal is very _inhospitable_ of _Saint Bartholemew's" _Mycroft's warns the staff, but his head tilts towards John, "Sherlock, if you don't mind now, time is of the essence, and we will be departing immediately."

Sherlock is much more gently eased into the back seat of the car. His handcuffs are removed. Sherlock however, remains silent and beaten. John motions to close the car door, but Mycroft stops him.

"John, I owe you my sincere thanks. Give Mary my regards."

_So that is her name. _Sherlock immediately despises it. Mary and John_. How biblical._ John nods too quickly and shuts the door. He turns away before the car can even begin to move forward. Sherlock watches the blurry form of John recede. He supposes that he should feel something more, but his body has numbed itself in an act of self preservation for the time being.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I truly believe this is for the best."

"Best for whom?" Sherlock doesn't intend to snap at his brother. But he is feeling rather drained and confused.

"All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. You only need look upon yourself today to see that lesson in full, Sherlock."

Sherlock remains silent for the remainder of the car ride. When the car finally slows Sherlock can make out the sounds of an aircraft hanger. _He is going to the states, then. _

Mycroft helps Sherlock board the private jet, and returns to the car to reveal Sherlock's violin case. _So he had sense enough not to ship it with the rest._ Sherlock utters a word of thanks, but does not forget for one moment, that this small act of kindness does not make up for the fact that his brother is sending him to rehabilitation.

"I'm sure you will make a quick recovery, brother."

"Just as I'm sure your diet will produce amazing results. To self improvement."

"I'll be in contact. Safe travels."

Sherlock is helped into the aircraft. As the jet prepares for departure, Sherlock removes his violin from its case, curious to discover if the sound quality will remain unchanged in high altitudes. He dosen't need his vision to see his violin. And it provides a small comfort as he visualizes its small details. The humidifier still rests in his violin, undisturbed. He examines it with touch more closely. The amount of cocaine that was previously stored in it is now absent, however, enough remains for a single, albeit extremely small dosage.

It would seem that Lestrade wasn't as clever as Sherlock had previously given him credit for. Mycroft had most likely noticed if after retrieving the violin for flight with Sherlock, and rather than removing His brother's secret stash entirely, he left just enough so that Sherlock would not begin to experience withdrawals in flight_._ Sincere Apology, and a rare act of brotherly concern. Sherlock would thank his brother, if the demonstration of his caring hadn't been surrounded by a dark secrecy that prevented Sherlock from ever mentioning it moving forward. He lets out a small smile. He supposes his brother preferred it that way. After all, as Mycroft had most notably informed Sherlock. Caring (or at least the open demonstration of it) was not an advantage.


End file.
